Inequitable Emotion
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Diane Gibbs has a strange morning - you'd think her husband finally coming home, and sleeping next to her, would result in forgiveness. It doesn't. Diane/Gibbs.


_a/n: i mean ... this actually came to me because i woke up really suddenly this morning and it was confusing ... _

* * *

She woke up abruptly, so abruptly she thought she'd been pinched. She'd been sleeping on her stomach, her face turned into the pillows, and she lifted her head with the distinct, lurching feeling that something was wrong. She blinked her eyes heavily, yawned, and turned her head.

She almost jumped out of her skin.

Her husband was in bed next to her – fast asleep.

She stared, her lips parted in shock, and then she looked the other way, at the alarm clock – it was damn near _noon_, and it was a Friday. She didn't work Fridays, so she usually slept in until an afternoon tee off on the golf course – but there was no explanation for Leroy being asleep, with her, on a weekday – unless he was dead.

Diane rose up on her elbows, staring at him – his chest was moving; he wasn't dead. He was tense and he looked uncomfortable, but Gibbs always looked like that – he was asleep at noon on a weekday; no wonder she had woken so abruptly and forebodingly, there must have been a cosmic shift in the universe.

She stared at him for a long time, half-expecting him to open his eyes and glare at her, to sense her vigil. He didn't, and she leaned over, rolling into her side, and placing her hand on his chest, and her nose against his shoulder.

"Leroy," she murmured. "Leroy?"

He tilted his head back and then looked down at her, opening his eyes.

She arched her eyebrows.

"It's noon," she told him.

Had he – overslept?

He blinked, and then nodded.

"'M off today," he grunted.

He pulled away from her, turning onto his side, his back to her. She looked at his back, eyes on the taut muscles of his shoulders. There was a bruise on his back, in the vague shape of a footprint. She wondered where it had come from, which suspect had given it to him.

"You don't take days off," Diane said quietly. "_You_ go in on weekends when it's not your shift."

She felt like she hadn't seen him in weeks – he certainly hadn't slept in the same bed as her for a month or two. If he did come home, he worked on that boat – if he slept, it was on the couch, for a mere hour or two, before he was back at work; sometimes he had some time to fight with her, before he got back to his serial killer.

Kyle Boone; it was all about Kyle Boone.

He ignored her.

She put her hand on him again; first on his shoulder, and then she slid it up to his neck, her thumb rubbing behind his hear.

"Are you sick?" she asked, managing some concern.

He shook her off of him, and grunted – _no_.

She frowned.

"Leroy, you're scaring me," she said. It was meant to be a joke, but her tone was brittle, wary.

He turned over sharply, his eyes narrow. He looked at her roughly.

"You bitch at me when I don't come home; now you're pissed 'cause I'm not at work?" he asked gruffly.

He closed his mouth in a grimace, a sarcastic glint in his eye. She opened her mouth to answer that, and then she pressed her lips into a thin line. She looked at him a moment longer, her heart beating in her throat. She wanted to scream at him, but she was so tired of it. She was tired of making herself miserable over him.

She lurched forward, pushing the covers off of her; if he suddenly wanted to lie in their bed, she'd leave. She had shifted her legs over, reaching for slippers, when she felt his hand on her arm. His fingers slid down to her elbow, and then to her wrist, and he squeezed gently.

Diane turned around. He looked at her blankly, and then jerked his chin a little, asking her to lie back down. Se hesitated stiffly, and then she did, turning onto her side and facing him. He stared at her a long time; he stared at her until she was convinced he was trying to see someone else, until she wanted to close her eyes and _be_ somewhere else; he stared at her with a clenched jaw and exhausted eyes.

"Can't do it anymore, Diane," he said hoarsely. He shook his head tensely. "I can't catch this bastard."

His words were cold, frustrated, guilty; angry. She pressed her legs against his, swallowing hard. She reached out and rested her palm on his neck, her fingers massaging the back of his head gently.

He closed his eyes again. He looked defeated. She moved closer and kissed his forehead, then his lips. She rested her cheek against him for a moment, and then pulled back.

"Leroy," she said thickly, her throat tight, her eyes stinging.

He looked at her dully, and she felt hollow; she hadn't planned to do this, she had just planned to be gone, but she couldn't just walk away from him, and that was half of what made her resent him.

"I can't do this, either," she said. She licked her lips. "I want a divorce."

He blinked.

He turned onto his back, and put his hand over his eyes, rubbing his forehead, his fingers heavily pressing into his temple. His lips twisted into a resigned, almost relieved smirk – mirthless, tired – he just seemed like he'd been expecting it.

He put his arm around her, and pulled her close to him, his hand running up and down her side.

She swallowed hard again.

"I don't want to be your … prescription, anymore," she said hoarsely.

He nodded, his hand still over his face darkly. He understood; he had come home too late – one day off didn't make up for a couple years of neglect and inequitable emotion.

* * *

_-alexandra_

_story #244_


End file.
